Like sand falling through an hour glass, the ticking of a watch as each arm reaches out and swipes past symbols in black, a pocket watch dangling unconscious on a strong gold chain. Time passes. An hour, minute, existence, spell, instant, second, heart beat.

Time cannot be dead. Yet our time comes.

Wind-up. A screen of bright lines. Two arms moving. Intangible, lurking in one’s mind or lingering in the air that we breathe.